


reign

by abovetheruins



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack dominates Pitch. Fill for the ROTG kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reign

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at ROTG fic and a kink meme, yay!

The contrast of his skin against Pitch's is fascinating. White and grey, blue and black. The way his fingers look, pale and tipped blue with frost, clenched around Pitch's bare, dark shoulders.

The older spirit looks so thin, even moreso without his cloak wrapped around him, nearly wraith-like in the shadows of his great underground lair. Jack's eyes trace a path along the curves of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone, over the flat plane of his stomach. Jack's fingers itch to touch, frost bursting from the tips in anticipation. He catches Pitch holding back a shiver at the sensation, watches with a hot curl of satisfaction as goosebumps rise along the

For all that Pitch looks every inch the fearsome Nightmare King, tall and dark and looming over the younger spirit, intimidating despite his partial nudity, it's Jack Frost that holds him tight against the wall, Jack Frost that stands calm and firm while Pitch shivers beneath the chill touch of his hands, Jack Frost that holds all power here.

Shadows writhe along the walls, fearlings curling around the rusty birdcages. Jack hears a Nightmare somewhere in the distance, hooves striking the ground and echoing all around them. It's not his fear they smell, he knows, and so he pays them no heed. His only focus is on the expanse of skin laid bare before his eyes, and with each slow, lingering slide of his palms against Pitch's dark flesh, he waits with bated breath, listening, listening...

Ah. There it is.

Pitch makes a sound, a short, sharp exhalation of breath that Jack wouldn't have even heard if he weren't waiting for it. He pauses in his explorations, hands pressed to Pitch's chest, marveling still at the way this feels, warmth soaking into his hands and thawing the rivulets of frost that Jack's fingers always leave behind on Pitch's dark skin.

Pitch's eyes are closed, sharp teeth clenched on his lip. He's not happy, Jack knows. He never is when Jack coaxes those sounds from him, always trying so hard to keep them all inside.

Jack smirks, running the tip of his finger from collarbone to navel, delighting in the full body shudder that gets him. He knows from experience that Pitch's resilience won't last long.

It never does.

-

The contrast of their skin may amaze Jack, but nothing compares to the _feel_ , to all of that power thrumming beneath his hands, the long, dark stretch of Pitch's body writhing underneath him.

And writhe it does. Pitch's hands slide clumsily over the pile of sheets Jack's got him pressed into, fingers scrabbling for some sort of purchase as Jack licks a wet stripe along the expanse of one dark thigh, groaning helplessly as he thrusts his fingers inside tight, slick heat.

And oh, he can barely stand it, can barely ever stand it. Jack's convinced that Pitch sucks all the cold right out of him, thaws him from the inside out. He runs his free hand up Pitch's chest, over his side and down onto his hip, leaving frost in its wake. A little retaliation, he thinks, smirking as Pitch lets out a huff of breath, close but not yet close enough to an actual moan. His frost melts nearly as soon as it touches Pitch's overheated flesh, leaving rivulets of water running down his sides. Jack frowns, disappointed. He loves the way it looks when his frost clings to Pitch's skin, thin spiderweb cracks of icy blue and white, beautiful in a way it probably shouldn't be but is.

But if he can't have that.. well, there are other alternatives. Jack crooks his fingers - one, two, three times - and there it is, a thin, high-pitched whine, Pitch's teeth digging into his lip to keep it contained.

Jack won't stand for that. He slows the motions of his fingers, keeping them buried inside Pitch, marveling at the slick, tight _heat_ even as he parts his lips to breathe a frosty gust of air over Pitch's cock.

Pitch _keens_ , arching off the sheets, a curse slipping past his lips before he presses them closed, glaring down at Jack through narrow, slitted eyes.

The frost spirit grins playfully, blue eyes bright with promise (and not a small amount of mischief) as he nips at Pitch's skin, short bursts of warmth and ice in equal measure. Thighs and hips and navel all receive due attention, though he avoids the one place he knows Pitch wants him most. He's not exactly playing fair here, he knows, but the small, ragged breaths his actions pull from the Nightmare King are too intoxicating to pass up.

"Damn you, Jack," Pitch spits through gritted teeth, tossing his head at a particularly cold bite to the crease where his thigh meets his groin. Shadows curl and snap against the floor around them, as aggravated as the master that controls them. "Get on with it - Ah!"

Jack takes that moment to pull his fingers free, raising himself up so he can slide his way up Pitch's body, skin against skin in all the right places. They both groan, Pitch at the wave of cold against his heated flesh and Jack at all that _warmth_. He reaches down and wraps a hand around his cock, guides himself in, in, in, until there's nothing but heat.

One snap of his hips is all it takes, all it ever takes for Pitch to finally loosen that iron restraint, mouth slack and breath rushing hot and fast past his lips. The shadows along the floor and walls go into a frenzy, twisting and curling, writhing about like snakes as their master cries out, fingers clawing at the sheets, at Jack's bare shoulders, at anything within reach.

And that - that's a whole other brand of beauty in itself, the endless groans and gasps and helpless moans that Pitch always makes. To hear that voice, usually so calm and dark and controlled, dissolve into a hoarse, smoky, broken thing... If there's any kind of power greater than that, Jack doesn't know what it is.


End file.
